


Ars Longa, Vita Brevis

by Nightdog_Barks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Death, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Sad, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-19
Updated: 2008-05-19
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:31:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks





	Ars Longa, Vita Brevis

_**_House_ fic Vignette: Ars Longa, Vita Brevis**_  
Not posting this to the comms because I think it's more of a vignette than anything else. Still, it has a name, the explanation of which can be found [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ars_longa,_vita_brevis).

This is a **speculative** piece, taking place after the events of "House's Head." It contains a character death, and is rated PG-13. Many thanks to [](http://topaz-eyes.livejournal.com/profile)[**topaz_eyes**](http://topaz-eyes.livejournal.com/) and [](http://pwcorgigirl.livejournal.com/profile)[**pwcorgigirl**](http://pwcorgigirl.livejournal.com/) for their wonderful drive-by betas. 649 words.

 **Ars Longa, Vita Brevis**

Wilson says good night to Foreman at the door. He knows full well that Cuddy ordered him to keep an eye on Wilson tonight, but Wilson considers that duty fulfilled by Foreman's act of driving him home. And apparently Foreman does too, from the way he lingers, but not too long, in the doorway.

 _Wants to forget this whole fiasco,_ Wilson thinks. _Get as far away from this clusterfuck as he can._

Not that Wilson blames him. If this hadn't all happened to revolve around some very elemental matters, such as the fact that Amber had been his girlfriend, someone whom he had actually fallen in love with for perhaps the first time ever, then yes, Wilson would have wanted to run away as far as he possibly could too.

Wilson stands in the doorway and absently flexes his left hand. The skin over his knuckles draws tight and stings from where he'd hit House.

The apartment is very quiet. He takes a few steps inside, dropping his briefcase by the closet. It's not where it belongs, but he'll pick it up in a few minutes and put it in its proper place. He thinks for a moment about making some tea, but finds the idea of actually going into the kitchen impossible. Her dishes are there, _her_ teapot, as well as the new set of chef's knives they'd bought together last week. The Cuisinart. He doesn't think he can even look at the fucking _spice rack._

He stands for a while longer in the doorway. When he finally puts one foot in front of the other, his legs tremble, and he takes quick, shallow breaths. Knowing this is a dissociative state brought on by extreme emotional trauma doesn't make it any easier. When he realizes he's in the bedroom he has no idea how he got there.

The waterbed is still, its oceanic waves frozen. Wilson tries to think about how he'll return it; his hand reaches for the drug rep's blank ad-pad on the nightstand but then draws back.

"Shit," he murmurs. "Ah, no." And then a long stream of mumbled syllables follow, nothing that makes any real sense, because when you come right down to it, how could any of this make sense?

He's spent so much of his professional life trying to impart _sense_ to other people that there's none left for himself.

Wilson spends a long time standing there, staring at the waterbed. The satin sheets are rippled in disarray as if they'd been pulled up in a hurry, and he knows without looking that there are long blonde hairs caught in the shiny weave of the pillowcase.

"Ah," he says again, and the word disappears, escaping into the darkness.

The sense of dissociation is growing.

"Amber?" he whispers. "Honey?"

 _You need to stop this. Right now._ This part of his mind sounds like his mother, and so he does.

Wilson undresses slowly, meticulously arranging each article of clothing over a hanger and depositing it carefully in the closet. When he's down to his boxers and undershirt, he stands still again, looking at the bed.

It smells like her.

When he moves again, it's to gather blankets and quilts and pillows from the linen closet and take them into the living room. The blankets and quilts go on the floor in front of the sofa, the pillow propped neatly against the sofa frame.

He slips between the sheets, cool and smooth against his bare limbs, and imagines her there.

Her head on his chest ( _that night he'd been wearing his McGill t-shirt_ ). His fingers sliding gently through her hair ( _she'd said they'd take the waterbed back_ ).

Alive. She'd been alive, and everything had been ahead of them.

Wilson turns onto his side and pulls one of the pillows close.

When the tears come, he doesn't try to stop them.

~ fin


End file.
